… a time to “tributize” the grandpa, too …

There are times I refer to Gar as “GrumPa” – usually when he assumes his Felix Unger identity, and the little ones combine to play his rascally counterpart, Oscar (as in The Odd Couple’s Oscar Madison, NOT Sesame Street’s Oscar the Grouch.)

Walter Mattau and Jack Lemon - the original Oscar and Felix

Oscar Madison, slob; Felix Unger, neat-freak

Both a slob AND a grouch!

He may not LOVE their MESSES, but he’s working on that patience thing because he absolutely adores his grandkidlets. Gar loved his Father’s Day with his little ones, and here’s proof!

Can you get it, GramPa?

We made it, Buddy!

Learnin' to walk with GramPa!

: Congratulatory Kisses!

Thanks to Unca Tim for these great pictures, and more will be on their way! We can’t pass up Kodak moments like these, now can we? (Especially when GramPa is wearing the preppy plaid Burmudas Gramma gave him for Father’s Day – the pale, white legs came free with the shorts! : ) )

June 22, 2009
by rbs 1 Comment

… a time to “tributize” hubby …

One night this past week, Hubby and I couldn’t stop laughing. The chuckles and giggles erupted over something ridiculous, the details of which I cannot begin to remember. But that’s not important! Gar’s goodnight comment, still laced with laughter, is what I’ll never forget. He rhetorically asked, “Who would ever know that living with someone could be so much fun?”

Now this observation delighted me because he said it after 40 years of marriage to ME. You see, I am NOT the easiest person to spend a lifetime with, let alone all eternity. I’m not saying he’s the easiest man to live with either, but there is NO ONE I’d rather laugh, cry, or argue disagree with. The miracle of our marriage is that we have grown to love each other for the people we really are – not the IMAGE of our dream mate or the spouse we THOUGHT married.

I adore Gary – my nit-picky, occasionally grumpy, chronic teaser of a husband! Over four decades I’ve learned to appreciate his many, many strengths and to either ignore his idiosyncrasies or snicker at them. I’m not going to dwell on his oddities, but I have to share a couple of them.

Unlike many males, Gar picks up after himself and anybody else who happens to live under our roof. I’m not saying he tidies up after us with a smile on his face and a song in his heart, but these days he tries not to growl too loudly. He’s also a great multi-tasker. If he comes home early, for instance, he’ll have the wash nearly finished, the lawn mowed, and dinner started before I arrive home. If I get home early, I’ll get my clothes changed before he shows up. Hmmmm.

I know many wives reading this post are thinking, “That’s NO oddity; that is SAINTLY.” But it can be annoying. Sometimes Many times, I drag home, ready to prop up my feet and just veg, but NOT Gar. He’s busy picking up or working in the yard, and so I can’t stretch out on the couch while he vacuums around me or lounge on the deck while watching him weed or plant yet another daylilly. So I sigh and pick up a dust cloth or a garden spade and drag my weary self through the motions of helping out.

There’s a particular cleaning situation, however, that I steer clear of. If the University of Utah and BYU are playing football against each other, and the Utes are playing poorly, Gar can’t suffer through intercepted passes or fumbled hand-offs. Because he is not able or allowed to run onto the field and ignite the offense or tighten up the defense, he grabs the vacuum and tears up and down the family room carpet. If the game doesn’t improve, the kitchen gets scoured, the floors scrubbed, and the garage organized. It’s quite amazing. Unfortunately, the red team didn’t throw many interceptions or fumble many handoffs last season, so the pre-holiday cleaning frenzy wasn’t what it used to be. (Go Cougs!)

Although my Gar is 60-something, I think he’s still afraid of the dark. He denies it, of course. But if you’ve ever visited our home in the evening, you may notice that little lights start twinkling from one end of the house to the other as darkness sets in. Nightlights line the hallway and the perimeters of every room. Of course our grown kids noticed the indoor landing lights and expressed curiosity about the type of aircraft expected to glide down our hallway.

Just in case the nightlights fail

A couple of Christmases ago, one of our daughters-in-law found the perfect gift for Gar – slippers with “toe-lights!” Seriously. But our son pooh-poohed the idea because he thought $39.95 was a little too much to pay for a gag-gift. I wish they had gone through with the purchase because I’m pretty sure his dad would have been thrilled. He LOVES slippers as well as lighted pathways.

Our grandchildren have also noticed that their grandpa is unique, if their titles for him are any indication of their observations. For example, my oldest son’s oldest daughter dubbed Gary BawCaw/Baca (not sure of the spelling). Upon hearing her refer to Grandpa by that dubious name, a nearby stranger commented upon the term by informing us that it means “crazy” in Japanese. A little further research indicates that Baca also means cowherd, mulberry tree, and misery. (By the way, it’s not listed among the 1000 most popular names between 1990 and 2003. Surprise.)

Our second son and his wife taught their children to call their grandpas by Papa, as in Papa Gary. I think that sounds quite cute. And while our third son and his wife encouraged their daughter to use “Grandpa Gary,” she came up with her own term of endearment: Cra-pa. (Say it fast for the total effect.) I thought it was pretty funny until yesterday when she called me Cra-ma.

So far this entry doesn’t sound much like a tribute, does it? Maybe a bit of a “roast?” (Thank heavens, Gary has a GREAT sense of humor!) Unfortunately, the post is growing in length, so I am going to “bullet” SOME of his MANY attributes, and later I’ll post pictures that share the rest of the story. First, the itemized list:

He quietly worries about all his children and grandchildren; I don’t think they realize how much.
He’s the first to ask, “Do you think we should send/give the kids a little something to help them through this tough time/to pay for their gas expenses/to celebrate their anniversary?
Out of the blue, he’ll send Halloween cards to our faraway grandchildren because he misses them.
Without an invitation or request, he’ll jump on a flight to a faraway state so he can help drive the moving truck to the next residence in another faraway state.
He’ll load and unload moving trucks for any son if at all possible.
He’ll paint walls, help build patio covers or fences, and plant a gazillion bushes, trees, and perenniels to make his wife or his sons’ wives a little happier.
He’ll play lion or monster, tickle bug, or sports fan to satisfy the needs of a grandchild.
He spends countless hours serving the Lord and NEVER complains about the time and energy it takes.
His only hobbies are and have always been his family. His “boys’ night outs” were spent as Scoutmaster with his sons on campouts or coaching or watching their baseball/basketball games.
He adores his mother-in-law and shows it.
He is always trying to be a better husband, father, grandfather, church member, neighbor, and person.
HE’D RATHER BE WITH ME THAN ANYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD.

Gary isn’t the “Ward Cleaver” of Leave It to Beaver

Mr. Perfect Husband and Father

nor the Archie Bunker of All in the Family …

: The original GRUMPA!

… maybe something in between.

Which all adds up to someone who is

SO MUCH FUN TO LIVE WITH!

June 17, 2009
by rbs 3 Comments

… time to speak up … an open letter to Twitter

Dear Twitter People,

I’m a new “tweeter,” and while I am enjoying this phenomenon, I also experienced a near-death experience last night as I set up my second account! You see I host a couple of blog sites, and I want to drop in between postings to share quick, thoughtful, AND relevant insights with my many followers. (Read sarcasm into the previous sentence, and you will accurately comprehend its tone.)

Twitter fulfills this ONE need of mine! I do NOT want to follow anyone else, AND I do NOT want anyone following ME!

While Twitter-users can choose one safeguard – protecting updates by NOT placing them on the public timeline – there are probably a couple of other issues that need your attention. I know you’re trying to keep out hackers while you fight legal battles with Tony La Russa, but what are you doing to protect users against creepy pornoholics?

While setting up my account, I did as instructed: I racked my brain to create an unbelievably unique user-name that also represented MY Twittering purposes. I came up with the following ideas:

Epiphany/epiphanies – Taken
Serendipity/serendipitous – Taken, taken
Information/info – GONE
TimeOut – GONE
TimeIn – No go
Tickles – Nope
Chuckles – UH uh
Chortles – No way
Interruptions – Forget it

And so forth. I was just about ready to call it a night when I thought of one more idea: Eruptions. The point being that my twitters are erupting with ideas, reflections, observations, songs, poetry, etc.

EUREKA! I finally hit on a creative user name. (BTW, I tried eureka, too!)

I KNOW you KNOW where this is going, and I SHOULD have seen it coming. After all, I raised 4 boys and taught middle school for years, so I am well acquainted with potty humor. BUT this mentality traveled beyond the bathroom to sinister cellars. SCREAM!

Within minutes of saving my information, 4 stalkers tracked me down, but I didn’t know this until I returned to my Twitter site. There I found 20 random network affiliations listed as followEES. (I guess your social network felt I was lonely or something. Incidentally, I removed all but 2: CBS News and Nightline. Thanks anyway.)

I also discovered the 4 followERS. When I clicked the link to see who these individuals might be, nausea set in; I screamed, coughed, and gagged at the same time; my brain tried to blow off the top of my head; and my shaking hands instinctively covered my widened eyes!

There on MY computer’s screen were 4 HORRIBLE, DISGUSTING, REPULSIVE, HIDEOUS, DREADFUL, NASTY, ATROCIOUS, SICKENING USER NAMES!!! Thank heavens the thumbnail pix were somewhat blurred; otherwise, I’d be lying on a slab in the morgue right now!

Shocked as I was, I managed to BLOCK THOSE PERVERTS! As I slowly recovered my sanity, I asked, “HOW IN HADES DID THOSE PSYCHO SICK-OS FIND ME?” At first no clear answer came to me. Not until I shut down the computer, brushed my teeth and readied for bed, tossed and turned for a sleepless quarter hour did it dawn on me!

My USER name, attracted those dirty-minded, depraved sub-humans!

Exhausted, I thought I would revise the culprit term in the morning, but then I imagined 100s of monsters preying upon my innocent site. I set about changing the user name – and thank heavens you Twitter developers, unlike blogger developers, have made that a possibility. BUT then I had to come up with yet ANOTHER creative and CLEAN term that could NOT inspire a double entendre!

For a half hour, I considered new ideas. The hour grew later and the ideas grew lamer: “SeConDs (I learned that capitalization matters NOT), minutes, minits, minuets, minitars, guitars, trips, traps, tripe – NO, NO, NO, NO! Finally, I stumbled upon “nanosecond,” and when I read “OK,” I didn’t even holler “Eureka!” I just called it a night, and went to bed AGAIN and dreamed of more possibilities. Grrrrrr.

Twitter People, I hope you can understand how despicable and frustrating this experience has been for me. If you truly recognize and empathize with the concerns of your Twitter-ers, you will send out your cyberspace Dobermans and FIGHT THESE SLIMERS!

(Please don’t take as long to remedy this problem as you took to stop the hacker of the Mormon Church Twitters!)

Be responsive and RESPONSIBLE! Be PROACTIVE and prepared to do BATTLE. WARN Twitter/Internet neophytes that they MUST choose their user names WISELY!

Since I am running out of CAPITAL letters, I must sign off now. Thank you Developers for reading this open letter. I can’t wait to see some RESULTS!

Sincerely,

rbs

June 16, 2009
by rbs 4 Comments

… a time to ramble … around and through “safe” subjects

I still like to read newspapers – not as avidly as my husband – but if there are sections strewn throughout the living room or kitchen, it will take me 30 minutes to pick ’em up, stack ’em up, and throw ’em out recycle ’em. Why so long? Because I can’t go through that process without scanning headlines, skimming 3 or 4 articles, and pouring over at least one story, commentary, or feature.

This morning, I delved into Ann Cannon’s column – “You’re a Pill; Old-fashioned words sought.” I enjoy reading Ann; it’s a lot like reading a blog – but I can tote her words with me into the bathroom. And if I spill diet A&W Rootbeer all over her weekly wisdom, the mess won’t forever end access to future Ann Cannon columns like it would if I dumped a beverage onto my laptop. (It just occurred to me that Ann must also host a blogsite. Wait here, while I check it out. — Hey, she DOES! The Writer’s Corner (and also what I ate today). It’s nearly as fun as her column!)

Although I’m older than Ann, I’m younger than her parents – BYU’s Lavell and Patti Edwards. Still I relate to her experiences and agree with most of her opinions, especially about raising boys. (She has 4 boys, no girls; I birthed 4 boys and no girls but now claim 3 daughters-in-law and 5 grand daughters! )

The other thing I like about Ann’s columns/postings is that she pretty much avoids controversy. I’m not sure why she does, but I know I am scared spitless of topics that raise hackles and inspire cantankerous comments. Look what happened to poor Scott Pierce when he stuck his neck out and wrote about the David Letterman/Sarah Palin battle. The last time I checked, 146 comments were listed! And many of them were nasty, Nasty, NASTY! Scott claimed to be cowardly because he didn’t approach the topic sooner. I don’t know WHY he thought it was safe to plunge in today, but it wasn’t! The sharks were just hidin’ in the reef waiting for him to dip his big toe into the cesspool.

On the other hand, Ann’s “call-to-action” (send in old-fashioned words) has only pulled in 9 comments, but could there be a safer subject? While I have weighed in on controversial issues like bad and good mothers, I usually don’t because I feel uncomfortable even COMMENTING about debates. I fret enough over sounding intelligent when I post a comment, so I don’t want to start looking over my shoulder for conservative/liberal, Republican/Democrat, BYU/Utah, traditionalists/feminists aiming poison pens at my unsuspecting back, too! VERY SCARY!

Today, however, I rallied to Ann’s cry for old-fashioned words. And here’s a revised version – revised because on MY blogsite, I can write more than the 200-word limit required by the Deseret News website! So the following is what I WOULD have submitted had Joe Cannon allowed me a sufficient number of words!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Another rather archaic term – besides the old-fashioned word “pill,” that refers to sulky children – is “Good night, Nurse!” – always uttered in exasperation. Perhaps patients frustrated at being awakened for yet ANOTHER shot or pill, originally growled the farewell in a thinnly veiled attempt to articulate their irritation to the attending medic. (As the nurse exited, she probably mumbled under her breath, “What a pill!!!” And yes, I am assuming that the nurse was female because in the hey-day of “good night, nurse,” the majority of nurses were women.)

“Punk” was one of my Grandma Barrett’s favorite terms, used to describe her state of mind. Before you imagine a little old lady with a 10-inch blue-haired Mohawk, wearing a leather vest, I must explain that Grandma was communicating that she was feeling under the weather. “I’m feelin’ a little ‘punk’ today,” she’d whisper as we dropped by for the first time in a week. (Grandma sometimes felt a little “punk” when she needed to lay on a little guilt, too.)

Then there were “Mormon” slang terms like “flip,” which has now been replaced by “Omiheck.” Missionaries often returned from the near-east or Far West with that classy expression embedded in their vocabularies! (“Flip! I can’t believe how every girl on campus wants her M.R.S. degree!”)

Worn by Elvis, James Dean, and Tony Curtis

Descriptive terms have changed, too, but so have the objects they described. A “D.A.” (short for duck’s a**) or “ducktail,” worn by “greasers,” was a long, greasy haircut that swirled into a curl in the middle of the forehead and an up-sweep in the back. Of course, there was a girl’s version of the ducktail, too.

Troy's Sexy Beta Haircut!

The “beta” haircut was a precursor to the Beatle haircut and featured long, swooping bangs, but was cut short above the ears. I could not find a reference to this early ’60s cut, but I think it originated on college campuses, and fraternities spawned the “beta” reference. The best beta cut belonged to teen matinée idol Troy Donahue. Sigh.

Before ending this rather random post, I need to tell you I searched for a few sources for old words beyond what my memory could provide, and found one to be Ann’s own blog. This is just a little ironic because she indirectly mocked her husband for calling their Newfoundland a “pill,” but in The Writer’s Corner, she asked “WHAT IN THE SAM HILL ARE THESE PEOPLE THINKING?” (You don’t hear that reference everyday, and just who in the Sam Hill is Sam Hill?) In another entry, she proclaimed, “That would be a grand gift.” (My Grandpa Barrett was the last person who regularly used “grand,” and he’s been gone for 25 years.)

Let’s face it, Ann likes those old-fashioned words enough to use them. And so do I – most of them anyway. They take me back to a place or a person, an incident or a dream – grand times I can retrieve in memory only.

June 7, 2009
by rbs 4 Comments

… a time to chortle … enjoying MoNdeGrEenS

I was supposed to be busy folding laundry, but instead I was peeking at friends’ and families’ blogs. During this diversion, I read an entry that made me laugh out out (lol in textspeak.) It seems that my neighbor’s children were perusing a Disney catalog of available DVDs, and the conversation went like this:

Daughter: “LOOK! Incredibles! (Or whatever movie she was looking at.) We [have] never seen that one!”

Son: “That’s Prince of Diarrhea!”
(Otherwise known to the rest of the world as Princess Diaries.)

First of all, I hope she doesn’t mind that I copied and pasted the dialog; and secondly, wouldn’t you know a boy – even a little one – is the author of a potty reference – even if unintentionally? But that’s NOT the focus of this post! (WHEW! You breathe in relief!)

Besides laughing at the incident, I recognized her son’s comment as a “mondegreen.” A what? Well, according to one of my favorite references, The Word Snoop: A wild and witty tour of the English Language! by Ursula Dubosarsky, a mondegreen is “what happens when we hear words without reading them and our brains have to work out what we think is being said or, more often, sung.”

The term was coined in 1954 by the writer Sylvia Wright. When she was young she misheard her mother recite a line from a poem:

“They have slain the Earl of Murray,

And they laid him on the green.”

which she heard as:

“They have slain the Earl of Murray,

And the Lady Mondegreen.”

OH NO! Not Lady Mondegreen, too?

Naturally, I recalled a couple of mondegreen experiences – not nearly as humorous as the Prince of Diarrhea, but memorable, for some reason. An old family story revolves around my sister Connie’s concern about starting kindergarten at Losin’ Clark Elementary School.

I can just picture what she thought was going on at an educational institution that loses people. Maybe teachers just misplaced students named Clark, but it still would give rise for worries, especially for a 6-year-old! With relief, she ended first grade knowing how to read, and therefore, learned that she attended Lewis and Clark Elementary! That tidbit clarified everything: It was LEWIS who lost Clark while exploring the great northwest!

I’m not immune to this condition either. I often “mishear” lyrics to songs, and I always have – even when I was younger and had better hearing, AND lyrics were less complicated: “She loves you. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” – for example.

Nowadays, as I listen to FM100 or 97.9, The Breeze, I hear several of Sheryl Crow’s many songs. One title I particularly enjoyed was “As God is My Hero!” What a wonderful sentiment! I thought as I listened to Sheryl sing the refrain. But then I heard it again, and thought she was considering God’s gender as she sung “As God is My DIVA!” Finally one day, I heard the DJ announce, “That was Sheryl Crow singing “The First Cut is the Deepest.”

WHAT???

I’m not really sure if this counts as a mondegreen experience or a hearing loss. But I’m standing by the mondegreen claim rather than entertaining the notion of buying hearing aids.

As I wind up this light topic, I am putting a call out to my many readers to share your experiences with mondegreens. I know my own grandchildren have come up with some doozies, but do you think I can remember what they are? (First the hearing and now the memory – what’s next? Sheeeeesh!)

Anyway, please search your family stories; talk with your spouses to see if you can come up with an example or two. Or grab a pencil and paper, tie it around your neck so that you are prepared to record the next humorous mondegreen that comes out of your little ones’ mouths – and if it has anything to do with potty humor, all the better!

See ya in the comment column!

May 23, 2009
by rbs 4 Comments

… a time and a season … an explanation

When a decade of yearly celebrations comes ’round, we humans often put a little extra into the revelry, whether they be birthdays, anniversaries, etc. For no other reason than that, I’ve determined that ten years equals a season. So, here I am 60-something; thus I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I am in “the SEVENTH season” of life – NOT the SIXTH; hence the corrected title of this blog. (I forgot that once you enter one decade or century, etc., time leaps into a higher round of numbers.)

While this more accurate title makes me feel older, I am convinced that psychologically it can work in my behalf. (See the comments that follow this update.) Another advantage is that the title won’t be so confusing. “The Sixth Season” was often referred to as The Sixth Sense. Even though I may write about those who have left this realm, that is not the purpose or theme of “Seventh Season.” SEASONS, not senses, are at the heart of my ideas.

While Mother Nature focuses upon 4 seasons, Ecclesiastes 3 teaches us that there are many more than those related to weather. “1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: 2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; 4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; 5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; 6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; 7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; 8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

Taking my cue from this Old Testament author, “son of David, king in Jerusalem” (Eccl. 1:1), I plan to reflect upon my times and seasons. While Ecclesiastes looks into “the deepest problems of life,” and is “permeated with a pessimistic flavor,” my purpose is to see the light, the love, the larks, and lessons of life and reflect upon them. So, read on …

May 21, 2009
by rbs 6 Comments

… a time to weep and a time to laugh… (or I didn’t think I looked my age until …)

In 2002, Jamie Lee Curtis, former True Lies hottie and current Activia spokesperson, blasted the media’s perfection myth by posing in her modest underwear, sans makeup and Photoshop’s glamorizing touch-ups. Nora Ephron, writer and director of When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle, “feels bad about her neck,” and so she wrote an essay about its metamorphosis into a wattle.

While I applauded these celebrities’ willingness to face gravity’s heavy embrace, I chose to duck into clouds of delusion. Enjoying gasps from acquaintances who expressed disbelief that I could be the grandmother of 10, I thought I was successfully dodging Time’s plundering depredation.

But then the day came when I joined the madding crowds clamoring for friends through social networks. Unless you choose the anonymity of such sites’ blue silhouettes, it is necessary to post an image of yourself to accompany witty or sage comments.

Me as Jane Austen

At first, I thought I would remain incognito and choose a caricature of sorts. So I perused the galleries of Flickr.com to find a facsimile of Jane Austen, donned in clothes worthy of a trip to Bath. Her facial features, however, were not far removed from those of the blue silhouettes.

Me as a Victorian romance-writer

Next, I stumbled upon the likeness of a romantic Victorian lady writing, but I could hear echoes of my sons’ guffaws at my choice as they asked, “What the freak????

Glamour photo courtesey of the DMV

Eventually, my search for the perfect picture led me to my driver’s license, issued in 2004. Yes, that’s right – my DMV glamour photo! By a stroke of luck, a decent camera angle, a pretty good hair day, and a limited number of pixels, I have a picture ID to be proud of. And I don’t miss an opportunity to show it to any checker at any grocery store or any security attendant at any airport! I’ve even requested that the photo be published along with my obituary when that need arises.

In the meantime, I scanned, cropped, and uploaded the photo onto my computer and pasted it everywhere: My Google profile, my 3 Ning accounts, and Facebook! When long-lost friends found me on FB, I loved reading, “Cute picture!” or “You look fantastic!” I even laughed when my boss, who sees me every day, accused me of cheating because I used a glamour photo.

But then the proverbial “moment of truth” came when my daughter-in-law “tagged” a current photo of me, taken at my grandbaby’s recent birthday party. I knew that anyone viewing that picture would know I was suffering from the “Oprah Effect” – no matter what the day-time diva looks like on the TV screen, Oprah remains svelt and ageless on every cover of O Magazine.

So, in the spirit of Jamie Lee, Nora, and Susan Boyle, too, I decided to publish pictures that reveal the real! Friends, please don’t think I’m feeling sorry for myself or seeking reassurance that I “don’t look that bad” because that’s not the point of this post. I am merely laughing at with myself for a variety of reasons.

Nice grimace!?!

Moment of Truth #1: Profiles don’t lie. In spite of 20 lost pounds, the double double is still hangin’ around! And I thought the new hair-do was flattering. Let’s rethink that one! At least there’s a cute guy sitting on my lap!

In the ample arms of love

Moment of Truth #2: Cap sleeves don’t cut it after age 40. In Utah, 70% of the women call arms like mine “Relief Society arms,” named after the women’s organization of my church. (I wonder if Baptist, Presbyterian, Catholic, and Methodist women nick-name these appendages “church-lady” arms)

FYI: Global warming is the result of millions of female baby boomers' hot flashes. Now am I a candidate for a Nobel?

Female Baby-boomers: Known source of global warming!

Moment of Truth #3: You’re not experiencing a hot FLASH; it’s a freakin’ heat WAVE!!! FYI: The onset of global warming coincided with the advancing ages of millions of female Baby-Boomers. And for heaven’s sakes, Girl, don’t wear pink blush! In this condition, YOU DON’T NEED IT! (But isn’t that baby adorable? Awww!)

So, that’s it! Oh, there are many more pix in the mix, and I really have to chuckle at how I see myself when I’m NOT looking. If I truly examine these photos, I’ll pass by the pudginess and see the playfulness; I’ll see joy, not jowls; and I’ll look at the love, not the love handles. Besides, in 20 years or so, I’ll sort through this collection and say to myself, “And I thought I looked OLD in those pictures!”

May 14, 2009
by rbs 5 Comments

“… a time to [‘dislike’] …” hate is such a harsh word

Don’t be deceived by this furball!

May I say that I loathe voles? First of all, the name is so ugly: V–O–L–E. (Can you hear the disdain in my voice?) I had never heard of these creatures until moving to the western desert of Utah in 2004. Upon hearing the vile name, I concluded they were a cross between vampires and moles – hence the name. But then I saw the evidence of their existence: crop circles.

Yes, there in my backyard were two perfectly round circles. The largest measured about 9 feet in diameter, while the little one was only 5 feet across. Perplexed at the site, I initially dismissed the possibility of aliens, but when I considered the alternative – pranksters who sneak onto private property to create circles with tiny lawnmowers – the alien idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

At the time, Hubby was also unfamiliar with voles, and he guessed that gophers were to blame. I disagreed saying those varmints were totally unfamiliar with geometry, but then again, they do like golf and we live next door to a course.

When I asked our neighbors, I learned the ugly truth: Voles had landed in our yard and only our yard! As I understand it, they came from Volecan, a far-away planet that is slowly dying.

Originally their appearance reflected their name – very hideous, but they quickly shape-shifted into something akin to field or meadow mice. I guess they received some kind of intel that included glimpses of Mickey Mouse or Ratatouille and mistakenly thought we earthlings would welcome them or at least ignore them. Of course this was phase 1 of their ultimate plan. You see if we ignored them, they could repopulate at such a rapid rate, they would take over the earth in less than a decade.

But the Voles underestimated our dislike of pesty aliens who mess up lawns and gardens! Hubby and I immediately hired a Vole-Slayer, and none-too-soon! The repopulation was progressing at a terrific rate. THEY WERE EVERYWHERE!

I wish I could say that was the end of the Vole Invasion, but it wasn’t. I’m afraid the hired Vole-Slayers resorted to chemical warfare that fateful summer. And while the tactic exterminated many of the creatures, some obviously survived as evidenced by what we found after 11 feet of snow melted this year.

The Voles have returned, but they are not the same as their fore-creatures. While they may still look like cute little field mice, the chemicals definitely affected the survivors of the 2004-05 war against them. Instead of perfect crop circles, our backyard now looks like a miniature corn maze – dozens of crazy paths weaving and winding through our lawn – our once beautiful, lush Kentucky bluegrass.

We don’t dare risk hiring the Vole-Slayers again for fear of what the fuzzy, frenzied fur-balls might mutate into, but I’ve heard a former dolphin trainer has invented a sonar system, currently available at Home Depot, that makes yards uninhabitable for Voles and the like. While this may not kill them off, it may force them to look for another planet upon which they can reek havoc!

May 6, 2009
by rbs 5 Comments

… a time to expire …

What is the big deal about expiration dates? I think these additions to food stuffs have created an atmosphere of hysteria. I didn’t grow up with “sell by —” or “best by–” dates stamped on milk. We just used the old sniff test. If it smelled yukky or poured out in clumps, we figured we shouldn’t drink it. Likewise, left-overs fermented in the fridge until they stunk it up or turned green, blue, or gray. If none of those conditions existed, we drank or ate it and lived to write about it.

And I had no idea that spices had a shelf life. I so rarely use oregano, all spice, poultry seasoning, etc. that one small can lasts decades. I thought organizing the tiny tins and bottles on tri-level shelves was going above and beyond spice control until my daughters-in-law started sorting through my kitchen.

The conversation started with, “How long has this been in here?” I checked out the container of lasagne and shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea.

“If you can’t remember, it’s been way too long!” she added ss she handed it to me. I realized she expected me to dump it into the garbage, but I had never thrown out food that wasn’t discolored. I always made sure those scores of Tupperware containers of left-overs bulged with fermented gases before scraping them into the disposal. Waiting for that corrupted state created guilt-free waste, for heaven’s sake.

Then there was the day another daughter-in-law started picking through the spice cupboard. “Hmmmmm,” I heard her quietly mutter.

“What?” I challenged.

“Wow, I didn’t think Safeway made Crown Colony spices anymore,” she smirked. “In fact, I don’t know of any Safeways that are still in business.”

No comment.

“Wow, there’s not even an expiration date on this nutmeg!”

“Well, there you go,” I wanted to say. “It’s still good!” But I didn’t get the chance, and I watched the rusted antique container drop from sight as it settled in next to the expired salad dressing bottles, moldy sour cream, and brown lettuce.

“What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” Right?

May 1, 2009
by rbs 4 Comments

… a time to wonder … about Daddy & dying

As a youngster, I hoped that ghosts were only ideas for popular Halloween costumes or subjects of comic books, like that cute little Casper. I didn’t like to think that a wavy, transparent rendition of my grandpa might show up at the foot of my bed “one dark and stormy night.” And I hated the idea that the steam fogging over the windows of my old boyfriend’s Chevy may not be the result of our teenage passion but rather an outlet for my grandmother’s wrath as she attempted to scold me from the other side.

Although I didn’t want to believe in ghosts, I can’t say I didn’t believe in them. Some think ghosts and spirits are the same thing, but I don’t envision spirits making many trips from the spirit world; whereas ghosts seem to show up anywhere at anytime. When enough people share a sufficient number of stories about visiting apparitions, possibilities sneak into the listeners’ thoughts, dreams, and imagination. Nevertheless, I never asked for living proof; I was content to wonder. And then my sweet daddy died.

He left us in the middle of a September night in 2007. He was 83 years old. Mom, my sis, and I huddled around his bed, holding his hands, waiting for the last labored breath to signal his good bye. But when it came, it wasn’t his final farewell. Seconds after his lungs emptied, shards of lightning shattered the dark, and rolls of thunder heralded his leaving. Since that night, I’ve longed for the spirit or ghost of my father-past to drop in for a minute or more. Is that a ridiculous wish?

It’s interesting how losing someone you love so much rearranges fears. I am no longer afraid of the possibility of spirit visitors, but I am afraid of the impossibility of them. Or at least I was. Lately little things have been happening to blow away those tiny motes of doubt that float in with sweet memories. And it’s not like I have been consciously seeking reassurances either. They’ve just come – unexpectedly, randomly, and subtly.

The first one came in the form of a story – well, a novel, actually. For the second time, I checked out The Lovely Bones from the library. I couldn’t get past chapter one the first time I listened to the audio tape, but friends recommended that I give Alice Sebold’s debut novel another chance. Although there are many painful parts of this remarkable tale, a beautiful tenderness soon emerges from Susie’s other-worldly “watch care” over her family and friends. Her interactions with them are only possible because of her love for them, and it’s the best kind of love, as it is grounded in who they are and who they are not. By the time I finished the last chapter, I believed in the characters, and I believed in their experiences.

The second little reassurance emerged from a more expected source: church. Last Saturday evening, a well-known and beloved religious leader visited our congregation, and when he rose to speak to us, he announced that he felt prompted to share an experience that he had never spoken of publicly. And then he talked of a time when he left this life to visit the beautiful and peaceful realm beyond this one. Now I’ve read of near-death experiences where individuals see a bright light, and they are filled with warmth and a desire to stay in that state. But this was the first time I heard such a testimony from someone I know, someone I respect, and most importantly, someone I trust. This unusual experience reoccurred 3 more times in his life. I know I was not the only one in that chapel who needed to hear that message, but I do realize it was meant for me, too.

The latest chapter was delivered via email. I opened a “Teaching and Learning” newsletter that featured an essay by one of my favorite authors, Amy Tan. “Saying Thanks to My Ghosts”was submitted by the author as part of of NPR’s “This I Believe” series. Ghosts/spirits have visited Amy throughout her life, but she didn’t realize it, even when her mother recognized their unique contributions to Amy’s writing. Now if any mother could rend the veil between heaven and earth, it is Amy’s mother, and according to the author, she did!

So, there they are. Three little incidents that reminded me that ghosts or spirits can wander back and forth between worlds, and that is no longer frightening, it is comforting. I may not awaken one night to see Daddy sitting by my bedside, but we keep in touch through little messages sent through others or through warm rememberings, and quite often through dreams – some silly, some sweet.

I love you, Daddy, and I am happy that you are near.

Writing My Life

Now and Then

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